In the final two months of my lovely dad's 87 years, he recited a poem that i had never heard him speak of before, crying with every word he recited. We will never know why this poem meant so much to him.




Tim, An Irish Terrier


It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now: 

Small as a flea or large as a cow;

But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet

By any dog that he  ever met,

Come on 'says he' for I'm not kilt yet!


No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,

Tim trails his coat the length o'the street.

D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear,

The like of a Dublin Fusilier?

He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.


But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath;

An'he'd go with me to the gates of death.

He'd wait a thousand years,maybe,

Scratching the door an'whining for me

If myself were inside in Purgatory.


So I laugh when I hear them make it plain

That dogs and men never meet again.

For all their talk who'd listen to them

With the soul in the shining eyes of him?

Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?



by Winifred Mary Letts